When it’s over, I don’t say anything right away. I lie back, staring up at the ceiling, chest still heaving as I struggle to catch my breath.
“Emerson,” he says after a few seconds of silence. “I…”
But that’s all he says. I wonder why. Is it because he isn’t sorry? Is it because he doesn’t think I want to hear his apology?
“I know how you feel about it,” he finally says. “I’m not… it’s not something that translates to the real world. I just got caught up in the moment, and sexually, I…”
It’s about what I thought, then. Anything goes in the bedroom. Doesn’t mean it’s how we are in real life.
“There are worse things,” I admit reluctantly, rising to a seated position as I lean back against the headboard. “You could want to abuse me with various s****l torture instruments, a la Christian
